We fear imperfection in our love lives. What if we embrace it instead?
As a broke, bookish, self-identified Marxist who spent her free time converting to Judaism, I was not popular among my business school classmates. I capitalized on my invisibility by playing anthropologist, quietly observing people from the periphery. Which is to say: I noticed him years before he noticed me.
Tall and quick-witted, he carried himself with a generous smile and a Hugh Grantian slouch. He lived in one of the houses that threw all the parties, the kind where you were asked to pay $50 to cover the alcohol. I did not go to these parties, both because I could not afford to and because I had no idea how to socialize with people who had worked in private equity.
I told him that I had spent eight of the past 13 years utterly single, without even a kiss. I had decided in my mid-20s that I was interested in dating only the kind of person with whom I could spend a day trapped in an elevator without growing bored or annoyed. This seemed to have limited my dating pool to a number near zero, especially if I insisted that the person also be attractive, younger than my father and unmarried.
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